Renaldo

by James McCreath

  of it, however.

  JAMES McCREATH

  The most shocking after effect of the Banco Nacional job was the complete

  denial and disassociation of the Montonero leaders from any knowledge of, or

  responsibility for the ‘tragedy.’ The very men to whom Serge and Jean Pierre

  had dropped off the bank’s bounty had called a local radio station that same

  night to disavow any relationship to those responsible. The man that made

  that call, Adolfo Bertoni, had reaffirmed his earlier pledge of abstention from

  violent acts in preparation for, as well as during, the World Cup tournament.

  The problem was that Adolfo Bertoni was a two-faced liar.

  The Banco Nacional heist had been his brain child. He was a born and

  raised Porteño, and he knew the workings of the city like the back of his

  hand, especially the military workings. He had been a radical student leader

  at the university before graduating into the Montonero’s finishing school. He

  had worked his way up from foot-soldier, to cadre leader, to self-proclaimed

  spokesman for the entire movement.

  It was evident to Lonnie that Serge Lavalle held Bertoni in great regard.

  They had worked on many of the same assignments together. Now, here was

  this very man proclaiming that there were hundreds of small-time terrorists

  who aspired to be like the Montoneros, but who were pathetically foolish and

  bloodthirsty in their attempts. He called the Banco Nacional job ‘amateurish’

  and swore to find out who those responsible were, through his own sources.

  Bertoni had his own very personal reason for wanting the Banco Nacional

  job to go down, in spite of his public pronouncements to the contrary. He had

  become heavily involved in the capital’s flourishing cocaine trade as a sideline

  and was expecting a large shipment to arrive by mid-February. Payment for

  the drugs would be courtesy of the good depositors of the Banco Nacional.

  There was no humanitarian rationale that could justify the death of the six

  men on the bank’s steps. No aid or welfare group would see a single peso. Not

  one destitute worker would get the slightest benefit from the actions of Serge

  Lavalle and his cohorts on that February afternoon. The only beneficiary of that

  afternoon’s activities was Adolfo Bertoni, who had lined his pockets with gold,

  just as he would soon be lining his nostrils with the purest cocaine.

  The transfer of funds between Lavalle and Bertoni was cordial, but swift.

  News of the robbery and subsequent murders had not been broadcast by the

  time the two men parted ways. Serge and Jean Pierre were able to board the bus

  to Mar del Plata without interference and departed the outskirts of the capital

  only minutes before all the major arteries in and out of the city were shut down

  by road blocks. They arrived at the safe house in Mar del Plata unmolested, and

  undisturbed. The brothers were ready to enjoy a month or so of anonymity in

  the sea and sun, but the newspaper that Serge picked up on his first morning

  stroll set the alarm bells ringing in his head.

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  RENALDO

  “Six Die In Terrorist Bank Attack. Montoneros Deny Responsibility!”

  Six dead? How can that be? Those fucking heroes, they must have tried to follow

  us. To stop us, were the thoughts that raced through his mind as the headline

  screamed at him. He hurried back to the house and roused Jean Pierre.

  “Look at this. This is blasphemy! That bastard Bertoni swore to me that

  there would be a statement of affirmation released to the press immediately

  after the job was concluded about how this money was going to help the

  starving and homeless. How the Montoneros were willing to do anything in

  their power to help the needy of Argentina. There is none of it here. Only

  denials. He calls us ‘amateurs.’ The bastard says that he is going to find out

  who is responsible and deal with them himself. What bullshit! He says ‘The

  Montoneros are dedicated to peaceful attainment of civil liberties and the rights

  of the underprivileged. As well, no disruption will take place prior to or during

  the World Cup Tournament. I give the nation my word on this, and I will see

  to it personally that such barbarism will not occur again.’ I don’t believe it!”

  Jean Pierre then asked the pressing question to his brother using sign

  language. Serge replied hesitantly

  “Yes, I think that we are safe here for the time being, but I must speak to

  Bertoni. I will be able to tell by his voice if he is lying to me. I have heard him

  lie before. His voice changes slightly. I will be able to tell if he has sent someone

  to take care of us or not. He likes the blood-sport. He might just do it to make

  himself look like a hero. I don’t know. Keep the door locked and your weapon

  ready. I will return when I have spoken to our two-faced friend.”

  Two hours later, Serge Lavalle returned to the safe house.

  “Grab your things. We are leaving right away.”

  Jean Pierre gestured with both hands in his confusion. “I think that

  Bertoni has turned on us. He says that the pressure from the military is

  devastating. Thousands of people have been pulled in for interrogation, and

  very few have been released. The backlash against the Montoneros because of

  this is enormous. The press and the people are calling for our heads. They are

  worried about losing their precious football tournament!”

  Serge threw up his hands in exasperation. He paced the room for several

  seconds before continuing.

  “Bertoni told me that we should stay where we are. Not move around and

  change locations. He said that the army has vowed to revenge the deaths of their

  brothers-in-arms. The six deaths changed everything, according to Bertoni. I

  think the lying bastard is out to get us. Once we are turned in or eradicated,

  the junta will call off the dogs, as long as there is no further trouble. Bertoni

  blames the negative reaction against the Banco Nacional job on the World Cup

  Tournament. This damn football is interfering with the politics of the country!

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  JAMES McCREATH

  It’s totally emotional. There is no rationale for this kind of reactionary behavior.

  Everyone is freaking out because of this stupid football!”

  The academic philosopher from his university days temporarily resurfaced

  in Serge Lavalle. He had always been the most cerebral of his terrorist ilk, and

  the thought of football interfering with the people’s movement for civil liberties

  was unthinkable. The masses were thinking football, not politics. Fools!

  Serge gave a running dialogue to his brother as they gathered up any

  evidence that would show that they had been there. “We have to warn Celeste

  and Lonnie. We are going to Tigre. There are excursion boats that run up the

  coast to Buenos Aires, then on to Tigre. I have booked us a private compartment.

  It wasn’t hard. The tourists are still arriving and no one is going home yet. We

  don’t have to get off the boat when it docks in the capital, and hopefully, the

  authorities will not have the boat searched. If we can make our way to Lonnie’s

  camp, I think that we will be safe for a while. Bertoni thought that all four of

  us would
come to Mar del Plata and stay in the safe house. I never did tell him

  of Lonnie and Celeste’s change of plans. If someone is sent here to kill us, they

  will waste a lot of time looking for three men and a woman. It will give us a bit

  of a head start. That’s it, grab your bag. We’re gone!”

  That they made it safely to Tigre was nothing short of a miracle. There

  were military guards aboard the vessel as part of the stepped up security

  program. The guards had the authority to detain anyone who looked mildly

  ‘interesting,’ and the Lavalle brothers subsequently spent the entire voyage

  locked in their stateroom. More military personnel greeted the boat’s arrival

  in Buenos Aires, and from their porthole window, Serge was able to witness

  firsthand the detention of several of the disembarking passengers.

  Luckily, Tigre was free of inspecting officers, with the exception of several

  jeep loads of national guardsmen who passively watched the tourists funnel off

  the pier. Serge made his brother strap a camera over his neck just as he had done,

  to enhance the ‘enthusiastic visitor’ appearance. There were no problems, and

  the brothers arrived at camp No Se Preocupe by taxi less than thirty minutes

  after the boat had landed.

  Jean Pierre remained in the cab out of sight while his older brother set out

  to find Lonnie. He was successful at his first stop, the camp office.

  The blank stare that greeted Serge’s muted greeting told the visitor that

  Lonnie could have been blown over by a strong gust of wind, so amazed was he

  at the sight of the figure standing before him.

  “Could I speak with you about the camp in private, Señor?” was Serge’s

  opening remark to the good looking man sorting papers at the front desk.

  “Why, yes . . . of course. Would you like to see the facilities while we

  talk?”

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  RENALDO

  The two camp secretaries hardly glanced up from their toils as Lonnie led

  the visitor out the office door, shouting over his shoulder that he was going on

  a tour and would be back shortly.

  “My God, Serge, what are you doing here? What has happened? You

  were supposed to be in Mar del Plata!” Serge gave his compatriot a very quick

  rundown on the events of the last two days, while emphasizing the safety of

  Tigre to his very nervous friend.

  “Jean Pierre and I need accommodation right away. Some place out of the

  way. Anything, a cabin, a third-rate hotel. Anything where we won’t be seen, or

  at least noticed. How is Celeste? Is she here?”

  “Yes, yes, she is down at the beach with some of the children. She is

  marvelous with them, you know. Is that your cab? Stay in the cab and I will

  make some fast phone calls. I’ll be right back.” With that he disappeared into

  the camp office, emerging less than five minutes later with a slight grin on his

  face.

  “I have just the spot for sports fishermen to stay a few nights. Cabbie,

  take these gentlemen to the Arrayan Cabins on Paso Alto. They have guides,

  tackle, and boats for rent. I have known the owner all my life. Just ask for Jorge

  Gonzales. Good luck with the fish. Call me at this number if I can be of any

  further assistance.”

  He handed Serge a piece of paper with the words, ‘eight p.m., your cabin,’

  printed on it. Lonnie then headed for the beach as the cab sped through the

  front gates of the camp.

  To say that Celeste was shocked at the news Lonnie brought her that

  afternoon would be an understatement. Nevertheless, eight p.m. found the four

  co-conspirators seated around the circular dining table in the spacious fishing

  cabin that Lonnie had arranged.

  “So, that is the story as I see it. I am certain that we have been double-

  crossed by Bertoni, but there is no way of proving it, unless we expose ourselves

  to him. That could be a deadly mistake. I suggest that we continue our fight

  for the cause of the people on our own, from a new headquarters, maybe even

  here at this fishing camp. Buenos Aires is all gaga about that silly football

  tournament. Everyone wants the Montoneros to go away until it is over so that

  they can have their soccer fix. Well, I say it is a perfect time to draw attention to

  our movement, to the people’s plight! Lonnie, can you get your hands on some

  money, say ten thousand U.S. dollars?”

  Serge’s question jolted Lonnie. “Well, yes, that shouldn’t be a problem.

  What do we need that kind of money for, Serge?”

  “Material . . . plastic explosives, weapons, ammunition, a car. The usual

  items. Is it a problem?”

  2

  JAMES McCREATH

  “No, not at all. I just didn’t think that we would be going to the mattresses

  this soon.”

  Lonnie was referring to the old Mafia custom of family soldiers holding up

  in a dormitory-fortress style existence if there was a gang war in progress, or if

  one of their own was being sought by the police or an assassin.

  “There is nowhere to go except to the mattresses, Lonnie. If Bertoni is

  looking for us, you can be assured it is to turn us in and ease the pressure on

  the rest of his organization. I knew the man was a coke head. I should have

  never trusted him as I did. We go back so many years, though. It’s because he

  is a Porteño. He is caught up in the fast life. Always has been. He doesn’t know

  the hardships of the common people in the provinces. He is not one of them,

  like we are. The working people of Argentina deserve their civil liberties, not

  to be thrown in jail and detained without explanation. I want to keep going, to

  show the people . . . Hell, the world, that true Montoneros don’t stop pressing

  for justice just because of some irrelevant soccer games. We will work as a unit

  again and strike independently for our cause. There is no going back. I did not

  anticipate six people dying at the banco, but I was ready to lay down my life

  and fight my way out of there if I had to. We have all lived to continue our

  righteous work. That is an omen. We can never go back now, only forward, for

  the people.”

  That stirring piece of rhetoric cemented the formation of the outlaw gang

  which was to become the most hated and hunted terrorist cadre in Argentina’s

  history.

  Preparation leading up to the first act of enlightenment by this splinter

  group took almost six weeks to complete the procurement of the necessary

  explosives and finalization of plans. Serge and Jean Pierre were moved to a

  nondescript rooming house in downtown Tigre. An extended stay at the

  fishing cabin would have provoked questions once the season drew to a close.

  Everything had to be arranged with the utmost of secrecy and caution.

  Lonnie had withdrawn ten thousand U.S. dollars from his private account

  and turned the funds over to Serge. He and Celeste continued their work at the

  camp as usual, with the exception of sporadic meetings at the rooming house.

  It was the Lavalle brothers that would handle all the planning and purchasing.

  By the twenty-sixth of March, Serge was ready to reveal the first strike plan.

  “I want to hit the middle class first. I want to make them wake up and

  rea
lize that we haven’t gone away. These bastards are still thinking about their

  fucking football tournament. I want to bring them back to reality. This is

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  RENALDO

  Argentina, home of the powerful and corrupt. The world must see that someone

  still cares about the people who can’t even afford a ticket to a football game. So,

  this is what we are going to do.”

  Two days later, during the morning rush hour in the southern part

  of the capital, a main commuter railway bridge was destroyed by plastic

  explosives. No one was injured in the blast, but the disruption kept many an

  irate businessperson away from work that day. Celeste had, once again, left her

  artistic handiwork at the scene, and the florescent red ‘Montoneros’ painted on

  the side of the trestle left no doubt in anyone’s mind just who the perpetrators

  had been.

  Serge wanted to act quickly and consummate as many operations as

  possible in a short period of time, then change headquarters and lay low for a

  while. The second sortie involved the bombing of a police station in northwest

  Buenos Aires. This particular station was acknowledged to be one of the most

  brutal detention and torture centers in the entire country. It took Serge until

  April sixth to replenish the supply of plastic explosives after the railway bridge

  job. They hit the station that same night.

  An old clunker of a car that Lonnie had bought a few days earlier with

  his false identification was parked in front of the target and left for several

  hours while the operatives kept the comings and goings of the station under

  surveillance. They were waiting for the arrival of the new internees, the ones

  destined to be tortured or killed. Jean Pierre had memorized the times that the

  armored police vehicle arrived at the station each night with its load of freshly

  rounded up subversives. The plan was to coordinate the detonation of the car

  bomb with the opening of the police station gate.

  In the ensuing confusion, it might be possible to free some of the prisoners

  before the compound was resecured. The assault was risky, but Serge had

  concocted this plan as an act of defiance, an act to show the military and the

  police that the Montoneros were an ongoing force with which to deal.

  Celeste continued to preach her terrorist dogma throughout the initial